


Dear Tuesdays

by InsominiacArrest



Series: Zircon Human Law School AU [1]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: 1970s, Alternate Universe - Human, Diary/Journal, F/F, Law School, a little nsfw in parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 18:19:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11132229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsominiacArrest/pseuds/InsominiacArrest
Summary: Blue Zircon x Yellow Zircon law school human AU set in 1973Blue Zircon (Zarah Khan) is set on her future at the Blue Diamond law firm, meet a nice boy, settle down. Live the dream. That is until stress might destroy her in law school and Yellow Zircon (Zadya Gold) makes herself known in Zarah's life





	Dear Tuesdays

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: slightly NSFW but nothing explicit, briefly deals with homophobia, race, and sexism in the 1970s
> 
> Reference:
> 
> Blue Zircon- Zarah Khan
> 
> Yellow Zircon- Zadya Gold

Dear Journal,

The councelor said that journaling could help with stress. I said that I figure I’m about as stressed everyone else, she says most her patients don’t look like me this early in the semester. I think I should be offended.

On the other hand, I have begun tearing out my hair. I’ve increased grinding my teeth. I have a twitch in my left eye and that’s the one I can barely see out of anyway.

It’s only the second month.

Go to Harvard Law they said, graduate Summa Cum laude, get hired at your mom’s law firm. Easy? Of course it’s easy, it’s perfectly easy.

I wish my hair would stop falling out.

10/15/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I was once more sent down to the counselor for concerning noises coming from my dorm room. The noises would be far less concerning if people learned to mind their own businesses, surely they have to have classes on that somewhere on this godforsaken campus.

A useful class, something that isn’t torts.

I was sent here and she told me to try journaling again, so trying again I am- and investing in new neighbors hopefully soon. Or classes that aren’t on torts.

They won’t even teach us heresy until year two, so here I am, watching my eyes fall out of my skull over civil legal liability (let no man on earth, specifically Professor Woods, see I wrote this. I’m stressed out enough as it is).

And of course, _she_  is also in that class.

I am going to buy thicker pillows. Or get my neighbors earphones.

10/18/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

If you are wondering, you non-sentient piece of barely passable paper (my proper notebook paper is taking down the ink, blood, and tears of my notes for Professor Woods lecture), the counselor said that I should write to something I hate. She gave several reasons of compassion, forgiveness, and sending a postcard to my vacationing emotional state or some other questionable transcendentalist bohemian sentiment.

I told her I would write to the day of Tuesday, ever since my brain has had a critical capacity I discerned Tuesday is objectively the worst day. Sure, people en masse hate Monday, but that’s because it’s a red herring for the abysmal time period that is Tuesdays.

You have some reserve of energy from the weekend for Monday’s, some feeling of being resigned to Wednesday and the hope of the weekend from Thursday, Friday. Tuesday is the energy sapping in between scourge of this mere existence.

And she would know that if _she_ listened to my entire case instead of dismissing the first lines and making our classmates side with her ‘Monday’ arguments. I wasn’t done! She didn’t deserve that round, or the next.

I’m never participating in ‘Drinking Court’ ever again, that’s my ‘Smiley Goal’ or however the counselor put it.

No more, drinking, no more teeth grinding.

10/19/1973

Dear Tuesday,

I had to go to the dentist.

10/22/1973

Dear Not Tuesday,

I have another name I would like to put as the recipient to my stress letters, but she is currently the Unnamable Problem. Her name just leaves a bad taste in my mouth every time.

There are exactly eleven (used to be thirteen) women in my law school graduating class, much more than last year but not enough for me to ever feel comfortable in any room. _She_  is, of course, one of the few other female students in any of my classes.

Which would be fine, good really. If she wasn’t the worst.

She’s good, I’ll grant her that- but almost too good. Smug grin, smug laugh, wants to only work for corporations who will pay her six figures like the men.

Admirable, ~~attractive even,~~ but that does not detract from her incessant ‘teasing,’ and insatiable need to win. She challenges and laughs and points and grins with that feline look that I would give a good right hook to if I was still in Kentucky. But we are no longer in Kentucky.

I should simply stop accepting her challenges.

Or stop going to class. There are many dilemmas.

10/25/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I cut my hair short. I’m already tearing it out from the stress as is and I am that much closer to looking like a professional, that’s what she must want right?  
  
Hopefully. Maybe.

Mother sent me a blue handkerchief with the firm insignia on it. Diamond Corp, where the best and brightest work for the best and brightest and the family will hang our name in the ledgers of its services.

I’m going to have to grow my hair out if mom is going to visit in December, Lord, maybe stop biting my nails too (The Unnamable said the hair was attractive but I have serious doubts she’s ever meant anything she’s ever said. I also don’t like that look she gave me afterwards- mocking).

10/26/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I accepted another Drinking Court, future lawyers shouldn’t drink this much, but the man next to me said ladies shouldn’t drink like this either. I downed that entire whiskey in one go.

Note to self: do not down entire whiskeys.

Our topic today was on which was the least savory condiment. I defender Worchester sauce and she prosecuted.

Honestly, what is there to defend on Worchester sauce.

She was faster, made more eye contact and started louder. But my points were better! More thought out.

Damn her, damn her, one day I’m going to beat her at these fake games- or the real games.

That is of course, after I down more aspirin and I drink the largest cup of coffee I can find (perhaps a bowl?)

I have a theory she’s trying to ruin me.

Even if she complimented my hair again by the third round of drinks.

10/27/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

There are negative ‘Smiley Points’ today. In fact, frowny points are had all around.

I have to wear a night guard now for the teeth grinding and that rash is back. And she made me an offer- what choice did I have?

I was sitting in Professor Woods class, my 9am with the least amount of frills and most amount of reading- which is saying a lot.

I was re-skimming the section on Civil Liability for prisons, nursing a second headache in a week (not from a hangover this time thank you). When she came in.

She always sits in the front. I sit behind that, not too close but close enough to show the professor I am not cowed and trying to hide. That will be important one day.

She didn’t sit in front of me. She sits by me.

The unnamable, Zayda Gold (I might as well say it) approached. She slid over like she invented sitting, invented sliding, and invented grinning at me like I was the first person on her ‘swallow whole list,’ right after ‘the entire world.’ Ugh.

“Zarah Khan.” I don’t like the way she says my name. I mean, granted, most everyone in this school just turns it into ‘Sarah’ and forgets the Z. They say it’s easier, there’s a lot of things they would like to make easier about me.

I try to turn slowly, lawyers are never eager. They are collected, patient.

I nod at her, she leans forward, “You are the smartest person in this entire class,” my thoughts freeze in place for a moment, an ice cold punch, “And they aren’t even teaching us hearsay yet.”  
  
“I know.” I say mechanically.

“That is not going to help me be the best prosecutor in the the next 50 states and the District of Columbia.”

“Um.”  
  


“I plan to make six figures.”  
  
“I know,” I wrinkled my nose.

“I need someone to practice against that isn’t a complete fool and where we aren’t at a bar.”  
  
One of the boys behind us scoffs, covering it up with a cough.

I frowned, “It’s the middle of the semester,” she raised an eyebrow, I took a deep breath. “I’m a little busy.”  
  
“I can make it worth your time.”  
  
“Oh?” I hate to admit it, she had my attention.

“You’re struggling in this class.”  
  
I scowl, “I’m doing just fine.” I sniff and scratch my arm, “you just said I’m the smartest one in this class.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, I could kick her, “You don’t know how to relax. They’ll eat you alive as a defender if you don’t practice now.”  
  
I look down at my lap, “I’m working for my mom after this. I’m not going to be a defender.” I wish I hadn’t mumbled.

“Oh please,” she says airily, waving her hand in the air. “I’ll help you with torts if you hurry up and help me practice for being an attorney.”  
  
I scowl at her further.

“Don’t try to force your hyper-aggressive BS on her Gold,” we both turn around as the boy behind us spoke, Aaron something. “If you think you’ll actually be hired for court cases…Well, just don’t make her into another little hopeless cocky would-be-attorney.”  
  
Zayda looked like a viper coiling to strike and for once in my life I was less nervous and instead waiting for the entire force of thunder to brought down on this boys head. I’m a little giddy too.

She simply turns away. She doesn’t spare him another look and I’ve never wanted to have something like that before, whatever it was she did.  
  
I watched him as he shook his head, “Especially for Khan.” He said my name in a much worse way than Zayda ever could. There were some things in this world they would never to let me forget.

I set my mouth into a hard line and turn back to Zayda, “I’d love to help you prepare for trials.”  
  
She makes the look of someone who planned to win and the professor walks in before O’Connor makes comments on things he feels obligated to comment on.

Journal, I’m not sure if any of this is a good idea- I don’t plan to be ruined by such girls that plan to ruin me. But something like this, it is a little tempting.

10/30/1973

Dear Tuesdays,  
  
I HATE HER.

11/1/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I. hate. her.

11/1/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

People are the worst. And by that I mean mostly Zayda Gold, I’m moving to the middle of the desert. Maybe my counselor will say I’ll reach Nirvana through the great outdoors and baking myself alive (she is always talking about Nirvana and ‘the magical east,’ double ugh).

Nevertheless, Zayda. Girls like Zayda are the worst kind of…mocking? Mocking.

I helped her with her dumb ‘fake’ cases where she goes through archives of trials and has us re-argue them. Until two in the morning.

Truly, I am a charitable person.

I told her, I told her, we had a test in one of my intro classes the day after and I should study for that (I always try to study four or five days in advance). But I had been busy- with a treason case for some Russian spy in the 60s. Like I’ll ever defend a case like that.

She had us run through it anyway, openings, pretend-cross examinations, closings. It was exhausting, why is she like this.

Perhaps that would be all, nothing wrong, nothing amiss. Just practice.

And perhaps it was my own fault.

I insisted she fulfill her end of the bargain: help me with torts and whatever magic flashcards she had that let her ace more tests than not.

She just shook her head with a little humph. I told her to help or we would never practice the next case and whatever it was we were preparing for.

She took out a bottle of rum ‘two shots’ she said ‘and then we’ll play a game.’

I was not happy, she said being stress while memorizing anything was the only way to do it- nerves were going to ruin me if I didn’t practice getting a handle on them. Like I didn’t already know that.

I take the shots, she took out her damn flashcards, she said stress now made oral exam stress later manageable, ‘practicing like you play’- Zayda Gold.

I roll my eyes and accept whatever it is.

She tells me if I get a flashcard wrong I’ll have to take off some article of clothing. I balk, maybe my face was a little hotter than it should be, I tell her that’s juvenile.

She just does That Smirk and asks me what my problem was- “we’re both girls here.”

I don’t know how to answer that, maybe I was a little rocked because my mom goes blank. She was a good lawyer.

“Fine,” I gritted my teeth, it’s not like I’m bad at flashcards.

We start, her flashcards for one are very detailed, and for two, I’m a little tired. I get the first fifteen right, rapid fire. But I stumble on a question about false imprisonment- of course I did.

I take off a sock.

But I had lost my momentum, incorporeal chattels- I don’t answer with enough detail. Another sock. Law of Obligations- my brain is very tired. I take off my jacket.

I’m sweating now, I get the next ten right out of desperation.

Then, of course, neighbor principle, a tort of negligence. My face goes pale, I can feel my mind racing, reaching. This wasn’t that hard.

“Um,” I pressed my finger tips together and then jam my glass farther up on my face, “omission… omission rules of evidence.”  
  
She raises an eyebrow, “and?”

My mouth opens and closes like a fish, I flounder. “That’s it?”  
  
She shakes her head and reads the full definition, I sink down lower into my chair. She turns back to me, “Go on.”  
  
I almost refuse, I had pride, standards, a reputation. A lawyer is nothing without a reputation. But she is nothing without a backbone either.

Zayda was looking at me expectantly, smoothly. I grit my teeth, everything about her was a challenge.

I start to unbutton my shirt, I could have gone for my pants but someone was going to learn if nothing else I had backbone.

I unbutton it slowly, one by one, forcing my heart to slow down and forcing my eyes to meet hers. She wasn’t the only one here that was a force onto herself.

My shirt falls away and I sit calmly in my brazier, I hadn’t put on an undershirt in weeks- there wasn’t enough time between classes, food, and not sleeping.

She looks coolly down at me and I wonder if it’s judgment or disinterest. Though I wouldn’t call it disinterest.

I spent a good deal of time always looking for jackets with large shoulder pads so people couldn’t tell I was just a slim gangly girl who was too tall for her age. Nevertheless, I had a feeling Zayda wasn’t accessing me like that.

She holds up another flashcard.

Something else hung in the air like an electric buzz that would sizzle eggs on the sidewalk.

I answer the next one wrong too, a simple mistake this time. But she doesn’t let it pass.

I don’t hesitate when I take off my pants, I’m not going to show any weakness here. Besides, it was just beige long underwear underneath anyway, for the cold night. And I wasn’t going to get any more of the questions wrong I promised myself, she watches me closely now as she flips the cards.

The next half-hour is a blur, I get the next handful right, there was nothing else to do but get them right. My nerves were a dull drone in the back of my mind and I ignore them.

She had something liquid and venomous in her green eyes, shining.

Journal, I can’t believe myself, I honestly can’t believe myself.

I draw a blank on the very last card, honestly I couldn’t tell you what the subject was on since the panic set in.

“Go on,” she flapped it in the air, “It’s the last one.”  
  
My eyes go wide, a dryness in my mouth. I give a rapid-fire series of answers, her eyes narrow.

“None of those are right.”  
  
I clench my jaw, I knew that. “Forfeit.” I put my hands in the air, “I’ll study that one later.” Too bad I forget what it was.

Zayda had been leaning on my raised bed, accessing me. She gradually stalks across the room as if she is the slowest tidal wave in the world.

She was looking down at me, she was looking down at my long underwear and brazier, my heart does something unhealthy in my chest.

She leans over me, “What are we without rules?” The words honestly haunt me.

I shake my head, “I already gave in.”  
  
“We are a society of rules.” She was toying with me.

I wrinkled my nose. I wouldn’t be toyed with.

I snort, “Whatever.”  
  
I reach behind me and undo the clasp on the back, I meet her eye as one of the last pieces of my clothing falls away. I am laid bare.

I blow air out my nose, this was normal, it was just rivals, female rivals.

The air sizzled, she was just teasing me.

She looks down and I look up, I slowly raise myself to my feet, she is still looking down and we are in something that I can never tell my mom. Something I really shouldn’t be telling you.

Her hands dance at her side, I am standing now, we are around the same height. Almost six feet and perhaps finally not too tall for girls.

I watch her, I am the steady one for once.

“What is it Gold?” I finally ask in a low tone.

  
She takes a sharp inhale of breath, I half-lid my eyes as if in amusement (I do foolish things sometimes journal).

She glances down at my exposed skin and her hands reach forward.

Her hands ghost over my back, lightly touching the curve of my waist. She looks up slowly and her acid green eyes are helpless.

I don’t do anything, I won’t give her the pleasure of anything.

She is a shaking twig at the moment and I can feel her breath on my cheek, it is a little fast. We aren’t anything.

She arches forward as if by accident and our lips meet like phantoms. It’s not like a real kiss, real kisses are not accidents and this touch is as light and unreal as a dream. But our lips still meet.

She stumbles backward immediately and pants. She quickly straightens her shirt.

“You got six wrong.” She croaks and stumbles further backward, “and you’re still sweating when talking. Juries smell ineptitude in a courtroom.”

I blink a couple times, I start to hate her a little bit again, “six out of a hundred and twenty.”  
  
She shakes her head and turns away. She jams her flashcards in her bag and hefts over her shoulder.

I clear my throat and she turns around, her eyes cover me like glue again, “get them all right next time.” She covers her mouth, I seethe, “And be a little more decent.” She sniffs, her cheeks are flushed, “it’s lewd.”

“What?”

“Naked? Sweating? Honestly.”

  
My nostrils flare and I see red, “You’re the one that…this is.” I ball up my fists and stand up straight, she is still flushed. I didn’t care I was almost naked, “I have another rule for you.” I say with steel in my tone, she pauses at the door, “I’m never going to lose to you again.”

She blinks, something unreadable on her face. She leaves.

I shouldn’t feel this way. Hatred, real hatred, I’ll write it in my head until maybe I believe it.

11/3/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I passed the torts exam and my Intro to Procedure oral midterm. My name is boosted into the top three student rankings posted in the hall (a ‘motivational board’). So that’s at least three ‘Smiley Points’ I can tell my counselor about…woo.

I’m not sure if I’ve felt any sort of emotion in a week, but I’m sure I can just focus on the number one spot and be out of here. In a year and a half. Out of here.

Please let it pass quickly, I’m having the worst dreams ever, and they aren’t even nightmares.

I’m going to focus on my classwork.

11/10/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

It’s parents weekend, I don’t know why they have it so late in the year but I really haven’t grown my hair out long enough for this.

Maybe if I hadn’t been so engrossed in essays, notes, and pouring my blood out for Professor Woods I would have prepared a little more mentally. My parents are sweet, but… a lot.

My mom knocked on my door five times at 8pm that day, and then she knocked some more until I answered.

She hugged me so hard I could burst and slicked my bangs back to get a better look at my face.

“It’s so short.” She says with a discerning look in her eye, “And you are so thin! Have you been eating enough? Or just coffee!” She wags her finger, “my bumblebee, have you been taking care of yourself?”  
  
I shrug loosely and she pulls me out the door, “I’m feeding you right now! Breakfast. Your father is still out getting you flowers, oh don’t let him know I told you. But I made sure he didn’t get the ones you are allergic to this time.”

I was smiling despite myself, rolling with her singing voice that held the air like a microphone. My mom could always talk.

I nod along and she tells me about the firm and annoying clients that bothered her boss and nonstop paperwork. ‘There were always things to do! Work to be done.’ That’s my mom’s favorite phrase, ‘There is work to be done!’ That’s what I used to chirp when I wore her heels in pre-school and pretended to debate the world, to be her.

I’m relaxing into my mom’s presence, and her hugs and nice hazelnut coffee smell, but she pauses when we make our way down the stairwell.

Paul Michaelson passes us with a slight nod, he was a quiet boy who was seventh on the ranking list and had fair hair that slid over his eyes.

My mom nodded back and gave me a mischievous grin as we make it to the bottom, “He’s cute.” She says with a little hop in her step, “Is he in any of your classes?”  
  
I groan and look away, “I’m busy mom, I told you, I’m focusing.”  
  
My mom shakes her head, “This is the perfect time for romance bumblebee!” She tutts, “Me and your father met in school.” She always reminded me of that.

My mom had been able to slip into law school during the war when all the men were gone, my father did basic training but got a bum knee during the grueling exercises. He was really more of a scholar. He ended up in her tiny law school class, and then her mom told the detailed Epic Romance of their lives as they courted.

I don’t think I’m going to have one of those, I’m not sure I’m built for it.

She rushed me down the stairs and into the nearest restaurant, afraid for my health and how much time I spent in the library. She told me I loved the sunshine as I kid, the color yellow, and wouldn’t have me grow sickly.

She continues to point out ‘cute’ boys on the way.

“Is he in your class?” She asks as we pass the quad, “He’s very handsome, consider the grandkids!” I groan again.

“No, he looks like a 2A.” I assure her.  
  
“How about him?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Tell me that one is, he has such a nice face!”  
  


I pause and stare at Aaron O’Connor, I wince, “He’s in my torts class.”  
  
“Lovely!”

“I….I guess.” I don’t have the heart to tell her O’Connor was probably the one scrawling ‘Beware: Genghis Khan in here’ on my door- even after I explained to him my family was from Turkey and no where near Mongolia. I stopped trying after the third attempt.

My mom wants to go talk to him but luckily my father comes with the bouquet of flowers ‘for my first semester!’ and I can escape to a breakfast bistro. They are daisy’s.

It’s not a bad meal, it’s actually really good, I get a little misty eyed when my parents let me get the pancakes, the eggs and the fruit. A college budget it not always friendly.

Plus, I don’t know journal, they keep smiling and telling me how good I am doing, that they’re proud. The feeling of home is a little hard.

They want me to be happy, very happy. My father tells me my sister says I can wear her wedding dress after this year, she’s done with it. He winks and tells me she thinks it’s going to be a good year for me.

I sink a little lower in my seat, a year or so to meet a nice boy in a suit that can provide for me, before a wedding they are happy to plan. And they want me to be happy.

So I get a little misty-eyed.

“Mom, dad,” I take a deep breath and both of them pause, I edge my eggs around my plate, they look at me, I swallow.

“What is it honey?” My dad moves my orange juice closer to me.

I look at my lap, press something down, and then look back up, “Do you think I could make it as a defense attorney?”  
  
My mom and dad share a look, a calculating one.

My mom finally reaches over and squeezes my hand, “If that’s what you want bumblebee, of course. But…The Diamond firm is very good you know. The pay can make a family veeeery comfortable and the paperwork isn’t all bad.”  
  
My father is glancing at me, he rubs his mustache, he tried to smile, “Attorney’s can be very stressed. And it can be…unforgiving.”  
  
I shake my head, I know I’m worrying them. I know it would be the hardest thing I’ve ever done to make it as an attorney.

I lift my chin and smile, projecting a kind of confidence I always wanted, “I was just thinking out loud. It could just be…an option.”

  
“You can be whatever you want!” They are grinning, I am still their law school daughter and still going to marry that nice man and be comfortable.

“Now,” my father rubs his hands together, “Are there any boys I need to have a talking to?” He winks and holds up his hands, I look down again.

“No dad.”

My mom looks between the two of us, “Tell us about school.”

It’s not a bad visit. I tell them about the workload and pretty campus and the offer to join the debate team (I don’t), a few rivals I’ve made. And try to make up a boy for them, competitive, confident, yellow floppy hair and a stubborn nose.

I’ll let them be happy.

11/13/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I have a cold. I’m not pleased with said cold and have spent the last three days sniffling, I haven’t been able to answer so much as one question in class and I think my ranking might slip.

Zayda is still insisting we practice as if nothing has ever happened between us and I wish nothing had ever happened between us. Should I avoid seeing her? Is that defeat?

Who knows. I don’t. I haven’t been able to smell anything for 72 hours.

People with clear sinuses should give thanks to some sinus god, this is awful.

I’m going to go take a hot shower.

11/16/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I’m feeling a little better. I drank enough tea to potentially sustain a British army and lay in the sun for a couple hours yesterday- maybe my mom was right about the outdoors thing.

I even got a brief drink with two other female law students, I sip of some tonic and let them play ‘Drinking Court’ without me this time.

Zayda was looking at me the whole time but one of the boys said she was a bit of a germ-phobe, she doesn’t approach. Good.

I sniffle and watch her beat the 1A at lightning round cross-examination of whether mosquitoes should be eliminated or not.

There was a protest against what’s going on in Vietnam outside campus yesterday.

I really need to double down on my studies.

11/19/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I feel almost better, I woke up with barely an ache in my throat! Just in time to ace my oral exam in intro to Criminal Law. Things are looking up.

11/21/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

Things are weird. Life is weird. I think I’m feeling sick again. Why is life like this? Why did I even invite her into my room?

Protect me from the dumb things I do oh beings that protect law students. Or at least give me a guide to pretty girls that say cryptic truly bizarre things in the middle of the day.

I am going to bed.

11/22/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

??? I am still confused. Very confused. Zadya came by my room yesterday, she made it out like it was the most normal thing in the world.

She wanted to do that Russian spy trial again and record ourselves on tape, which sounds embarrassing.

I told her I was sick. She flinched and looked at me carefully. I shrug and tell her we could do it later, anything outside of schoolwork could really wait right now.

She came up beside my bed anyway.

“You are too stressed. What have I been telling you?”

I roll my eyes, “I’m not more stressed than anyone else.”

She narrowed her eyes, “Yeah. But the rest of us have coping skills for it and are not sick right now.”  
  
I set my jaw, “I don’t know what you want from me.”

She lifted her chin and said the next part very matter-a-factly, dryly, slowly, “Do you masturbate?”  
  


Every muscle in my body tenses and I squawk, “What?!”

“You heard me.”  
  
I sit up completely straight and don’t meet her eye, my gut churns, “That is a ridiculous question.” And I certainly didn’t want her to be the one asking it.

“See? Bad coping mechanisms. You’ll die if you keep that up.”  
  
I snort and push my bangs back, “Not masturbate?”  
  
She grins, “No.” She prowls, “but I guess that confirms it.” I don’t answer and frown deeply, she draws nearer, “I’ve never seen you release a day in your life.”  
  
I make a face, “Release?”

“It’s good for you.” I make a face and she holds herself very still.

I look away and she just hopped down to the floor. I sniffle and she turns away, looking over her shoulder enigmatically.

“Call if you ever need some help with that stress. I probably don’t need any more court practice right now anyway.” She had something coy on her lip this time.  
  
I am slack jawed and frozen.

I am still slack jawed and frozen. Help with stress? After…Do you think….

She has to be messing with me, right? RIGHT?

11/24/1973

Finals are coming like an avalanche I have no equipment to evade or stop. I’ve buried myself in books and there is no escape.

I’ve chewed a hole in my nightguard and haven’t returned half my phone calls, Professor Woods gave me an 83% on a test. An 83. I don’t know what his game is.

And if I’m being honest, I’ve become more aware of Zadya than I have of anyone else in my life. She hasn’t talked to me since.

11/27/1973

Dear Tuesdays or whatever,

I have two weeks until finals, I need to get it together. I better not lose any more clumps of hair, I’m too young to have a bald spot.

12/1/1973

Dear FINALS,

I’ve been drinking three-day-old coffee for hours now and don’t why I don’t become an elementary school teacher or sheep herder. There are no sheep at an Ivy League law school. I’m not sure if the professors are going harder on me than everyone else, or if I’m doing that for them.

I want to sleep. I saw Zadya smoking last night, Cara, one of the other eleven female law students said she only did that near big tests. Maybe even the queen gets stressed.

12/5/1973

Dear Lord,

I think I need to go to the doctors for a developing ulcer.

11/??/1973

Dear FUCK,

Four more days, four more days and it’s 2 in the morning with another stack of torts literature to go through. They call these classes weed out classes but fuck if I’m not going to be that weed (weeds grow in places they aren’t supposed to like insidious fools).

I am considering doing something I may regret. I’m seriously considering something I might regret. It’s 2am, I know someone else that may be awake.

I’ll leave you here to watch my books.

11/11/1973

Dear….

Well. Well? Well! Well.

I have, ahem, done something.

11/12/1973

I have very bad decision-making skills.

11/12/1973

It snowed! It’s very pretty.

Nothing quite like this in Kentucky, though one of my professors is already suggesting I do something about that accent.

11/12/1973

The snow was nice for a moment. I have made another questionable choice.

11/12/1973

Dear Goddammit,

I did it AGAIN. Someone needs to get me a leash, ~~but Zadya would probably just like the look of it.~~

I need to erase that last sentence. And myself.

11/13/1973

Dear WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS,

I keep doing this.

At least she fed me breakfast again this time.

Or is that bad too? Ugh.

11/14/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

Finals begin tomorrow, I should be more nervous.

But I am genuinely thinking about other things. My stomach is in knots all the time, I think I’m getting a fever, she sits by me in torts. She puts her hand on my thigh in torts.

Not that we haven’t done more things than that.

Someone save me. I didn’t imagine this is how she would ruin me.

11/16/1973

Dear Exhaustion,

I did my first two finals today. I am too tired to say much, they went well, I hope.

11/17/1973

Dear Sleep,

One more day. Two more to go.

11/18/1973

Dear ALMOST,

Break is so soon! I am so close!

I did one last final this morning, the second is in the afternoon. She’s coming over in between tests, I should stop it. But I’ve never done better on tests before.

11/19/1973

Dear Confusion,

I did the last final. I barely remember it.

I can only remember the moments before. Should I be this red? It was just a simple exercise between…friends? Rivals? Something.

My heart, damn my heart. I can’t stop thinking about it, she laid me down on the bed this time, no hoisting me onto her lap and reaching down my pants, fast and dirty with a few dry expletives. Not that I’ve minded that way.

No pinning me against the wall and heavy petting until I whine and she says she won’t stop until she hears me. It was a long night.

But it wasn’t today. In the middle of the day before both of our last final in Professor Woods class.

I can see the bags under her eyes and smell coffee like stain over her whole being and ginger in her hair. But maybe she always smelled like ginger.

I take the opportunity to get her shirt over her head, she rarely let me get her clothes off. She is pliant in my hands as I wrestle her pants to her ankles, delicately taking my time with her under garments.

She arches into me, I kiss her neck, maybe the kiss is too light, too tender. She moaned.

I took her carefully in my hand and rolled her over in bed, she runs her hand down my sides and we kiss. It’s not like before.

I can’t call it fast and dirty anymore. No, the desperation lingers, as it always had, the secret in our chests. And she touches me.

We make love this time and the hour passes with the scent of ginger in my mouth and sweat covering my body.

“You are beautiful,” she whispers and I know she’s saying something like a truth this time. I kiss the end of her nose and we roll into each other like coaxing symphonies out of pelvis’s and skin.

It’s only after we are both spent and the ticking clock tells us it is almost four that we lie wrapped in one another.

Her face is pressed into my chest and we are breathing heavily. I look at the wall opposite of us for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled into my skin and traces the muscles on my back lightly.

I chuckle gently, “I promise, you did good.”  
  


She shakes her head into my skin, kissing it lightly, “For all the nasty things O’Connor writes on your door.”  
  
I purse my lips and feel the sunlight play across my skin like a caress, “You get a tough skin.”  
  
“I should kick his ass,” Zayda runs her hands down my side and kisses my shoulder, “you’re too good for him to even share the same air.”  
  
I roll my eyes, “Boys write those kind of things near you too.” I say slowly, delicately; ‘Jewish American Princess’ was the nicest of them. “We’ll get through.”  
  
She kisses me again, my collarbone and chest, as if she wanted to memorize the curves and swallow me whole- like I predicted. She kisses and kisses again.

I feel a shiver go up my spine and screw my eyes shut, something mournful bubbling up deep within me. I take a deep shuddering breath. She looks up at me with a question in her eyes, I swallow.

“Are you alright?” She weaves her hand in my hair.

“Zadya,” I say quietly, a shameful wetness breaking in my eyes as I look at her, “Is this… practice to you? For…others. For,” I gulp. “For after this.”  
  
She shakes her head, “I’m not looking for their ‘after.’”  
  
I take a rattling breath, almost a sob. I curl into her and she holds me closer, she messages my scalp and tucks my head under her chin.

“I’ve known what I am for a long time,” my eyes go wide, her hand grips me, “I’m sorry if…I dented any of your plans. It can just be practice for you.”  
  
I feel the sob rising in me again, I wipe at my eyes. “No.” I say it outloud like a curse, “No! I don’t…those aren’t my plans either.” A rule book written for somebody else, a love letter from society on the promised dream. I wish I could return to sender.

She kisses my eyelids and the timer goes off.

I go to my last final.

What have I done.

11/19/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I have three days to pack and go home for winter break. Three days before this spell might be broken and I am asked about ‘after’ again.

I took Zadya to the movies tonight, I told her it was the least I could do (see? Backbone). She seemed just as smug and victorious as ever, figures.

We hold hands in the dark and laugh at the silly faces we make at a movie that is not particularly good.

She takes me to ‘the best ice cream shop this side of the Appalachians.’ I accept, for now.

It’s good, almost a little too good. Someone stares at us when she gets ice cream on her nose and I kiss it, but they look away muttering on girl friendships and hippies.

Maybe we could be ‘friends forever’ if no one looked too closely and I could hold her hand and they wouldn’t ask questions. I keep my hand by my side for now.

We walk and she asked where was I going after this.

I shrug, “anywhere I want.” She grinned from ear to ear at that, I lick the end of my orange creamsicle. “You?”

“You know,” she looked off into the distance, “Someone who will pay me enough to never have to worry about anything again.” Her shoulders squared, “Buy my parents a house.”  
  
I nodded, we weren’t all here under our lawyer-parents bankroll. I wished I could hold her hand.

I chomp on the ice cream, “Anything in mind?”  
  
She gave me a devilish look, “If Yellow Corp will hire me I’ll take them for all their worth.”  
  
I shake my head, “Lawyers already have bad name as it is you know.”  
  
She slips her arm over my shoulder on the empty street, pulling me close, “Don’t worry babe. I’ll make the CEO’s richer and you’ll put them all in jail.”

I raised my eyebrows and a laugh a little, “You know, I said I would never lose to you again.”

Her eyes go soft, “I don’t doubt it.”  
  
We go back to my dorm and kiss until our lips are bruised and blue and I try with all my might to tell myself a different stor

11/20/1973

 

 

 

Dear Journal,

Wow, I actually thought I lost you. I must have dropped you under the bed when I was going home for winter break freshman year.

It’s move out day and my freshman counselor would be happy to know I managed stress enough to graduate summa cum laude. Soooo, smiley points.

Gee, it’s been a long two years. Better though, it got better.

I can’t believe I wrote all this down, especially the last couple entries, I should burn this- a lawyer is nothing without her reputation. I might want to remember this all one day though.

Zadya’s been avoiding me for the last couple days, but she isn’t very good at goodbyes or sentiment. I’ll see her no doubt before my parents arrive to help finish packing.

I wish we were both going to the same city, I wish she wasn’t quite so stubborn.

But I’m stubborn too, I’ve already promised myself I’m getting that public defender job in DC. Just let them watch.

But I want to see her first.

I wouldn’t even be going out for these jobs without her, God, that crazy confidence and cocky smile, I can’t believe I gave in.

I’m going to have a lot to beat in the future, there is work to be done. First we have to say goodbye, even if it’s the hardest damn kiss of my life.

I’ll see her again, even it’s in the courtroom.

And maybe… some time forever from now, we’ll work this out and the law will recognize us back. Not that either of us would put our pride aside to propose.

But there’s always potential.

5/12/1975

Dear Journal,

She did it on a goddamn Tuesday. Of course, on one knee with a symphony playing because she is that kind of ridiculous. She chose a Tuesday and that is the day I’ll have to celebrate from now on every June.

Curse this woman, curse this woman for the rest of my life I guess.

6/27/2015


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